I wish our story didn't end there.
Our story was never a book,
just a short story.
But hopefully we can write
a book full of our short stories.

and for a second i remembered why i fell in love with you all those years ago
it wasn’t just the laugh or the way your eyes lingered for a half a second too long but the way you made me feel in your presence,
like there was nothing else in the world that could draw your attention from my words.
but then i remembered, the temper, the walls, the vast insecurities that strangled you at night, and i remembered why i moved on,
you could never love me the way you loved being lost and i knew
i could never find you.

1-hour photo lab: an aged prop:
prompt

One hundred years of solitude: glass city:
yellow be their faithful death:
mikado

She prefers another color
for the bedroom wall:
sarcoline

She's in the spotlight
staged like a warm peach:
Non-Euclidean

'Almost a spy--
looking forward to a bright and wonderful future'
--eternally and everlasting:
amaranth

What do you give the person
who thinks they have it all?
Doubt:
that dull brown stocking to wear on his feet

I am not an open book;
I am not an easy read.

you pried open my cover,
and engraved your name on the sleeve.

ink bleeding through the layers,  
pure white pages made unclean.

you wrote down a story,
and I let myself believe.